


The Natural State of Man

by 50artists



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Animal Death, Canon Dialogue, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Photography, Yes this is basically a character study for an NPC with less than 20 minutes of screen time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-11-04 00:54:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50artists/pseuds/50artists
Summary: It was easy to let silence settle between them, as they rowed back to the shore - but Albert could also feel a tension, as present in the air as the suffocating humidity, and he watched Mr Morgan’s arms as he rowed, the steady shifting of muscle beneath his tanned skin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone reading this is an expert on late nineteenth century photography, slang, or technology in America: I'm sorry. I tried to research this, but I severely doubt it's accurate.
> 
> Spoilers for 'Arcadia for Amateurs' I - V, but not much else.
> 
> Everything tagged applies throughout, with more specific warnings in the chapter notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for - homophobic attitudes and brief references to hate crimes, guns, smoking

**** Nothing could engross Albert Mason like a camera.

 

He knew that, in many ways, he was useless; he'd never excelled at his studies, nor shown an aptitude for sports, and in conversation he was rambling and odd. He was not a handsome man and he did not have the saving grace of charisma.

 

A camera, though - he could operate a camera. He liked the technicalities of it. Rolling film and setting up the tripod. Tilting his surroundings into frame. It was a strangely physical form of art, and while Albert wouldn't call himself talented (or even above average), photography made  _ sense  _ to him in a way most of the world didn't.

 

His sister Irene called him gifted - probably out of sympathy for his efforts. “You and that Kodak,” she would tease him, “you handle that thing like a lover.”

 

~*~*~

 

The first time he saw Mr Morgan, Albert had just one thought:  _ I have to photograph this man _ .

 

Since leaving the city, Albert had met his share of eccentrics, but Mr Morgan was one of a kind - almost obnoxiously handsome, and more than a bit rough around the edges. He wasn't an intruder in the wilderness, or a tourist like Albert. Rather, he sat stood naturally between the trees, as though he'd been born with leaves over his head and earth beneath his feet. There was something untamed in his body language.

 

“Stand here,” Albert insisted, “just there.”

 

Mr Morgan’s hat was tipped forward just enough to shadow his eyes, and his clothes were flecked with mud and dust, and his lower jaw was rugged with days-old stubble.

 

Even as Albert crouched over the lens and stared, he felt a flicker of guilt. He'd promised Irene that he wouldn't do this. Not that the image would be incriminating, to anyone who couldn't read his thoughts - Mr Morgan was a bit uncomfortable, a bit unkempt and flighty, not too different to the other wildlife that Albert had captured.

 

What harm could one photo do?

 

~*~*~

 

For the last few years, Albert's life in the city had been stale, a drab procession of men and women that he could barely pretend to like.

 

Had he always been so misanthropic? He didn't think so. It was the grind of middle and upper class society; the shallowness, the judgemental little comments, the politics he could never keep up with. Often Albert felt he was the punchline to a joke that everyone was in on, except himself. 

 

He sold prints. They had no heart. The images he developed were drained of anything resembling beauty or meaning. Either they were stiff portraits, where people wore their most formal clothing and sat like a rod, or else kitschy shots of the hedgerow countryside surrounding the suburbs, all little cottages and flower beds and cockerels. He had to leave. Nobody else agreed, of course. He was told time and time again to stop being foolish, that his plans would never work, that there was no market for serious wildlife photography and that he wouldn’t survive a day on the road.

 

Even Irene disapproved. They argued, the first serious disagreement they'd had since childhood, and Albert still could not be dissuaded.

 

Unfortunately, the process of proving them all wrong was even more difficult than Albert had expected. He knew that things would be less comfortable, less civilised - but he wasn’t prepared for how  _ real _ the world could be, out in the wild. When the wind blew, it was not the domestic wind of the city - it was piercing, brutal, cut through Albert’s clothes like a knife through butter. When the cold settled it chilled him to the bone. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept on a surface that didn’t leave his back an aching mess.

 

Albert wasn’t faring well. He’d never felt so ignorant in his life. He couldn’t light a fire, he couldn’t navigate with a map and compass. He could barely even ride a horse. Still, he persevered.

 

His path zig-zagged across the open country. It didn’t even occur to him that he might encounter Mr Morgan a second time; after all, the wilderness was vast in a way he was only starting to appreciate. Vast and unforgiving.

 

~*~*~

 

“Hello again,” Mr Morgan said from between the trees, and Albert couldn’t help but jump - the man practically materialised. He was like something out of a dream. Or, more realistically, he was so comfortable with the outdoors he did not make the clumsy sounds that Albert’s footsteps did. The same worn hat was perched on his head, and this time he was smoking, a cheap brand that made the air smell vaguely of ash.

 

Albert stumbled over his words, but Mr Morgan just spared him a smile. Even the mention of wolves didn't phase him. He simply took a big, nasty looking gun from his horse and said, “I’ll stay with you a while. If anything comes, I'll protect you as needed.”

 

Albert tried not to show how relieving that was. “You are a gentleman,’ he said, possibly with too much force.

 

“Ah, you don't know me very well.”

 

“Well, to  _ me _ \- you are a gentleman.”

 

Mr Morgan glanced up, something funny in his eye that Albert couldn't read. “Usually, I'm worse than the wolves.”

 

They stood a while and waited, Albert crouched over his camera, Mr Morgan watching down the sight of his gun, and spoke about nothing in particular. Mr Morgan made easy conversation. He was sparing with his words, calmly intelligent in a way that Albert admired - after all, it was the polar opposite to his own incessant babbling. Mr Morgan's voice was always slow and considered. It was undeniably deep, almost rumbling, and smooth with a drawl that Albert couldn't quite place.

 

And then the wolves arrived, and all hell broke loose.

 

~*~*~

 

Oddly, as he cowered at the foot if the tree in mortal fear of his life, Albert's mind did not focus on the snarls and gunshots and pain exploding up in the air around him. Instead he looked back, almost calmly, as though it was a dream.

 

He thought about his parents, his sister, his mild upbringing and the -

 

_ There was one night that Albert never could scrub from his memory, when Irene surprised him in the early hours, bursting in through the door of his apartment with a haste that seemed to hold her whole body rigid. She was still wearing her nurse's uniform. _

 

_ Albert, who had been winding film into his camera, carefully span the last few inches and then turned to face Irene through the gloom. His darkroom was nothing more than a curtained-off section of the apartment. Once the film was loaded he drew the sheets back, letting his fluttering oil lamp illuminate both their faces, and only then did he see the odd twist to Irene's features, as though she was in physical pain. “I say, Irene, are you feeling alright? You look awful. Did something happen at the hospital?” _

 

_ She didn't answer immediately; instead she wandered over to Albert's desk, where a few prints still laid in a stack. Pursing her lips, she flicked through them. Albert felt a blush creep up his neck. “While it's nice to see you, I really -’ _

 

_ “Albert.” Her voice as she interrupted was dull. “These are interesting pictures. Incriminating, in the wrong hands.” _

 

_ “Well.” He wasn't sure how to react. Although his fingers itched to snatch the photographs from Irene's hand, he resisted; she was unnerving him. _

 

_ After a pause, she spoke again. “I’m sorry, but I'm afraid I have bad news. Leonard arrived in hospital a few hours ago. There was an attack -” _

 

_ Albert listened, his stomach feeling cold. Leonard Winters was a man his own age, Albert's ex-lover and current muse. Of the photographs in Irene's hands, at least half featured him. Leonard wasn't especially handsome but he was shameless, and unafraid of being photographed in compromising situations. _

 

_ “Let me get my coat,” Albert said shakily. _

 

_ “Don't. You shouldn't be seen with him “ _

 

_ “What? Irene, whatever do you mean - the man is my friend, you know.” _

 

_ Irene finally put the pictures back down on Albert's desk. “Listen to me. This is serious. Even before I left, there was talk of arrest.” _

 

_ “Arrest? That's absurd! The man's a _ victim _ , -” _

 

_ “Do not be naïve,” Irene snapped. “He could be sentenced. He could face years of hard labour. They found photographs, incriminating photographs - photographs that I know  _ you _ took, Albert Mason.” She breathed in deeply through her nose. For a second, she did not look like Albert's little sister. She was a grown woman, almost a stranger, someone burdened and tired. “You are my brother,” she said, and now her voice dropped back into something kinder, “and I love you with all my heart. I know this is hard to hear, but you need to stop. No more photography. You need to take these and burn them, and never do this again.” _

 

_ “What do you mean?” _

 

_ “Don't you dare play the fool with me, Albert. The  _ men _. How long is it going to be until you face your own trial?” _

 

_ “Don't be ridiculous.” _

 

_ She looked sad. “I'm not. Look, I know this is hard. But promise me you'll stop. I feel like I'm being eaten alive with worry for you, and tonight - seeing Leonard, and knowing - knowing it could have been you in his place - I can't live with it.” _

 

_ Before he even formulated an answer, Albert found himself shaking his head. “I can't stop my photography. It's all I'm good at.” _

 

_ Irene didn't seem surprised; she simply walked over to where Albert stood, and pulled him into a firm embrace. Her long hair tickled his cheek. “A compromise,” she said. “Keep your camera. Keep taking your pictures. But no more men. Not like… Not like this. Please, Albert.” _

 

_ Who was he to refuse his sister? _

 

_ “Very well,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly even. _

 

_ “Do you promise me?” _

 

_ “Yes.” _

 

~*~*~

 

He was crouched in the mud, hands over his head, every inch of his body on fire with fear and shock.

 

With a desperation Albert didn't even know he possessed, he wished that he could live just one more day. Just a few more hours. Just long enough to write back home, tell Irene that he loved her, that she was right and he never should have left the city. Maybe send her a few prints. Something. Anything other than be killed in the most brutal of ways.

 

Around him - seemingly from every direction - the sound of gunfire and pained yelps, claws scrabbling against rock and ground - the sound of Mr Morgan cursing -

 

All Albert could do was screw his eyes almost painfully tight and wait, wait for the inevitable moment he felt the piercing claws - like sharp knives dragged along his back - the great wet jaws of a wolf fastening around his throat and clamping -

 

“Please no,” his mouth was saying, “don’t eat me -”

 

And then, silence.

 

He could hear the low resonance of Mr Morgan’s voice, but picking out individual words was beyond him. When he dared open his eyes, it was to a horror scene. Mr Morgan had a bright streak of blood across his chest. He was approaching Albert slowly - as though, at any moment, he might bolt like a skittish horse - looking unperturbed even as he walked through the veritable sea of corpses that laid strewn at his feet, their pelts red and matted, their still-twitching faces warped into expressions too animal for Albert to read.

 

“Snap out of it, you’re safe,” Mr Morgan said. He clasped a warm hand over Albert’s shoulder and helped him to his feet. Despite all his bluster, Mr Morgan was surprisingly gentle.

 

Albert took a wobbly step forward. “My whole, futile existence flashed before my eyes,” he said, dazed. Terror was still lingering in his body. Everything felt heightened and strange, and all his limbs were weak.

 

Mr Morgan just shrugged. “Yeah, they can be pretty aggressive.”

 

How could a man be so calm, after fighting off a pack of wolves? Albert felt fit to collapse. If not for the remnants of his pride, he might have sunk to his knees then and there. This country would be the death of him. He started stumbling over to his camera, rambling on and barely paying attention to his own words. His hands were shaking. It was only when he noticed the slow bloom of crimson spreading out over Mr Morgan’s chest, almost drenching the man’s shirt, that he began to snap out of his reverie. “I say, sir,” he cut himself off mid-sentence, hands clenching around the tripod in alarm, “you’re bleeding!”

 

“What, this?” Mr Morgan looked down. “Aw, don’t you start worrying about me.”

 

“Don’t worry?” As he spoke, Albert could hear his voice coming about a bit shrill, but he couldn’t stop it. “You’ve just been wrestling with wolves, Mr Morgan! I think that we should all be most alarmed!”

 

“ 'S just a scratch.”

 

“Sir, I am deeply indebted to you. At least let me ensure you're not about to stagger off into the woods and die of blood loss.”

 

Mr Morgan looked ready to argue, but then he tried to move his arm and grimaced. An alarming amount of blood was soaking through his shirt, clinging to the planes of his torso, making him look like something out of a nightmare. He shot Albert a guarded look. “You sure you know how to patch a feller up?”

 

“Yes - or at least, I would very much hope so. My sister’s a very accomplished nurse, and while I can’t claim to share her expertise, she’s forced me to pick up one or two of the basics.”

 

Mr Morgan still looked reluctant, but he wandered over to sit beside Albert, settling with a wince on the muddy ground. He held himself a bit stiffly, and avoided eye contact. “What d’ya want me to do?”

 

“Just take your shirt off and let me see the damage,” Albert said.

 

Slowly, as though his fingers were cold, Mr Morgan unbuttoned his tattered shirt. Albert realised his mistake only as the material started to peel away, still soggy and clinging to Mr Morgan’s skin. He was bloody, but marvellous. Albert didn’t think he’d seen someone so beautiful outside of a museum, even with skin pitted with scars and stained red. Albert tried to focus on the red. He couldn’t indulge this; he tore his eyes and mind away from any unprofessional appreciation of the human form, and inspected the wound. It appeared that the wolf caught Mr Morgan across the chest and bicep, all in one sweep of its claws. Most of it was superficial but one cut had raked far into the flesh of his pectoral muscle, leaving an asymmetrical gash that was still weeping deep, vivid blood. As gentle as he could, Albert tried to remove a scrap of cloth caught on the edges of the wound. Mr Morgan didn’t so much as blink - but it must have been painful. He just stared straight forward. He still wasn’t meeting Albert’s eyes at all. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his pulse was racing visibly through the artery in his throat.

 

If Albert didn’t know better - he’d almost think Mr Morgan was shy. The thought made him smile very slightly. “You’ll want stitches in this,” Albert took his hand off the soft skin of Mr Morgan’s chest, “but I don’t suppose either of us have the tools to do that here. Do you have any disinfectant? Maybe whiskey? Or at least bandages?”

 

“Now whiskey’s somethin’ I do have. Check the saddle,” Mr Morgan instructed him, and sighed as Albert fumbled about. “No, not that side. Yeah. I said yeah, that one.”

 

Once again, as they poured the whiskey over his chest, Mr Morgan didn’t flinch. He just clenched his teeth. “Damn, ‘s got some sting,” he ground out. “Damn wolf.”

 

“I am so sorry, Mr Morgan. Really,” Albert winced as he saw the amount of new blood already seeping out, bright against the murky clarity of the whiskey still pooling on Mr Morgan’s chest, “all of this is my own fault.”

 

“Yeah, well. I heard your fool plan and went along with it.”

 

For bandages, they made do with strips ripped from Mr Morgan’s shirt, which was already too blood soaked and torn to be useful. Even as fresh blood began oozing through the wrappings, he was already pushing himself off the ground and over to his saddle bags, pulling a worn blue shirt out of his bag and, refusing Albert’s offers for help, shrugging it over his body with awkward movements of his shoulders. The second he was dressed, he seemed to relax more.

 

“Nice to meet ya again, Mr Mason,” he said, climbing onto his horse with a practised swing that Albert could only envy.

 

“You too,” Albert said.

 

Only once Mr Morgan had ridden out of sight, no longer a reassuring presence out in the wilderness with him, the shaking started. 

 

For a single foolish moment Albert wanted to call him back. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've had quite a break from writing and I forgot how hard it is :0
> 
> I'm really enjoying this story though! I'm planning on two more chapters, I've done a rough draft of both but still need to polish them up. It's really difficult for me to write 'in character' for these two but hopefully it works! Next time is when the real drama will start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm updating 3 months late - just as everyone's lost interest in RDR2 and moved on to other things! What can I say, I love publishing fic for a total of five people to read.

That evening Albert stopped in a squalid little town. It was barely more than a row of huts, but Albert headed straight for the saloon.

 

A few drinks didn't exactly rid him of the shakes, but at least they took the edge off. The world became slightly out of focus. At some point, he got into a conversation with the local Sheriff; a stout man with a limp black moustache, who listened with barely-concealed boredom as Albert tried to explain the importance of wildlife conservation efforts. All that occupied the Sheriff's mind - and what he turned the conversation back around to every couple of minutes - was a recent robbery that had gone ugly and left two of the local boys dead. 

 

“‘Specially that Billy,” he muttered, not for the first time, over the drink he was nursing,  “he was a good kid. ‘Boutta start working under me, actually, once he were old enough. Reckon that’s why he tried to take the fella on.”

 

“Really?” Albert said, also not for the first time. “Goodness, that’s terrible. Simply awful.”

 

“Yeah. Say,” the Sheriff turned, and a flicker of interest showed through the haze in his eyes, “you must’a been around these parts a while now, taking so many pictures.”

 

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

 

“Wonder if you’ve got any leads on this fella, then.” With one sluggish hand, he dug around in his pocket, and then handed Albert a crumpled sheet of paper.

 

His heart sank.

 

Mr Morgan's unmistakable, handsome face stared back at him.

 

Albert was a second from blurting,  _ I know that man! _ , but at the last moment his drink-addled brain kicked into action and he kept his mouth clamped shut. Mr Morgan had fended off a pack of wolves just a few hours earlier, and not let Albert suffer so much as a scratch. He owed his _ life _ to that man. A wanted criminal, it seemed.

 

Albert schooled his face into neutrality. He'd never been a good liar and his heart began to pound - but whether from preparing to lie, the memory of the wolves, or the sight of Mr Morgan's face, Albert wasn't sure. He handed the poster back and shrugged. “I'm sorry, my good sir, but I'm afraid that I must disappoint you.”

 

“Not seen 'im? You sure?” The Sheriff took his paper with a frown. “Name's Arthur Morgan. One of them Van der Linde fellas. Been makin’ his way all over New Hanover, from what I can tell.”

 

Albert smiled. No doubt it was thin and pinched, but he tried. “I really do apologise. Wildlife photography is my business, and I've barely had anything to do with the locals. You seem like a marvelous bunch, of course,” he let out a laugh that was probably too high-pitched, “but I’ve never met an Arthur Morgan in my life.”

 

The Sheriff sighed. “Well. Gentleman like you - you're just the sort they'd go for. You'd better keep an eye out.”

 

“Oh, I shall,” Albert said.

 

~*~*~

 

Inevitably, he met Mr Morgan again.

 

“So you're still alive,” he drawled as he approached Albert on the wet hills of the Heartlands, rain pouring down and running along the brim of his hat - and for the first time Albert felt wary of the large and deadly-looking rifle strapped to his back, the pistol at his hip.

 

So Albert knew he was being an idiot. He knew it. But he couldn't help the warmth in his voice as he said, “Mr Morgan!”

 

Some of the mystery had been drained from his man of mystery. Mr Morgan was not just an eccentric mountain man. He was an outlaw, a dangerous criminal and a murderer with a  _ gang, _ and someone that Albert had been explicitly warned against. But he was also Mr Morgan - polite, clever, solid as a rock. A man who had gone out of his way for Albert's sake.

 

(And Albert could not quite get the sight of Mr Morgan's naked and blood stained torso out of his head, his shy, muted smile, his sculpted face. The way he moved and seemed as much a part of the wilderness as the birds and the trees.)

 

Mr Morgan, of course, was not privy to Albert's conflict. He just smiled back and said, “how are ya?”

 

“Indigestible, apparently. Aside from that, very well.”

 

“An’ how’s the project going?”

 

“Well, this is God’s country, and I am his faithful servant.” Albert spread his arms out across the landscape, which was certainly a sight, the gushing rain, the mist and haze and wild horses on the horizon - all far too beautiful to capture with a camera. “Although perhaps not his most talented one,” he admitted.

 

While it had only been a few days, it felt as though he’d spent months of his life out in the Heartlands, hunting for those elusive horses. He’d expected it to be hard work, of course, but not impossible. Nowadays he felt like Sisyphus on the slopes of his mountain. Just as Albert managed to draw closer to the animals, they would prick up their ears and scatter once again, leaving him to troop for endless hours through the mud, bulky camera on his back and feet aching from the confines of his boots. He had blisters in places he didn’t even know people got blisters.

 

It was so easy to forget what he knew about Mr Morgan and just enjoy his company. He was so  _ kind _ . Albert didn’t even ask for his help; he simply offered and waved off the complaints.

 

And yes, Albert felt like an utter fool as he watched the effortless way Mr Morgan could move, the way his horse ran under him like an extension of his own body, and how easy it was for him to round the wild ones into frame. They came closer than ever before; Albert knew in his bones it would be a good shot as they galloped past, all sinew and wild beauty, the haze of the rain and mist adding an almost unreal quality to the whole view; he knew just when to set off the flash and capture the moment, and his heart thrilled at the sight.

 

It was perfect. As close to perfect as it could come with Albert operating the camera, anyway.

 

”You are a genius!” He exclaimed as soon as Mr Morgan returned.

“No. But I can ride a horse.”

 

He made it sound so simple. Albert insisted, “in my world, that makes you a genius.”

 

“You’re too kind.” Again Mr Morgan tilted his head just slightly, just enough to keep his eyes in shadow, as though he was allergic to praise. “How are the, uh, photos coming along?”

 

Albert couldn’t help but notice, it was the second time Mr Morgan had asked after his photographs - and before he had really thought his actions through, he was reaching into his bag and pulling out the print of the wolves, which he’d made just for this occasion, and justified to himself as a meagre repayment for Mr Morgan’s services, even though in his heart Albert knew it meant slightly more.

 

Mr Morgan considered it. “That’s real fine,” he said after a pause. His words sounded genuine.

  
“Well, thank you.”

 

For a moment, he thought Mr Morgan might have something else to say; but then he tilted his head, and started retreating back to his horse, already merging with the landscape as though he’d never been there at all. “Take care, Mr Mason.”

 

“You too, sir. You too.”

 

~*~*~

 

Albert was maybe, a little bit, infatuated. It had been a long time since he met someone like Mr Morgan; someone he genuinely liked, totally removed from the stuffy society of the city and conventions and the dull, dull, self-centred businessmen that he hated.

 

He couldn’t help his mind wondering. Of course, there was a good likelihood that fate would not bring him and Mr Morgan together again - three chance encounters already seemed improbable. But say they did meet. What harm could come from testing the waters? Seeing if, on the slightest of chances, Mr Morgan fight feel the same way?

 

What was the worst that could happen?

 

Well. Mr Morgan was an outlaw. The worst that could happen was that he could take great offence, could turn on Albert and hurt or no doubt kill him without much effort or remorse; despite the gentle way he moved, it was not difficult to imagine how a big man like Mr Morgan could become threatening, how the warm hands that helped him to his feet could just as easily become weapons against him. If Albert had an ounce of sense in him, he’d pursue this no further.

 

~*~*~

 

He did manage to write his letter to Irene. She had not contacted him - this set a pang of worry in his chest, which Albert tried to ignore. After all, they had parted on a sour note. Perhaps she was too busy to write.

 

Albert himself had never been a skilled writer. Just like when he spoke aloud, he went on tangents and forgot what he was saying, until the page was a mess of crossed-out and muddled phrases. He was also not good at spelling, and his handwriting never progressed past a schoolboy scribble. Irene was one of the few people in the world who could detangle his horrendous letters.

 

_ Dearest sister, _ he wrote,  _ I simply cannot begin to tell you of all the things that have happened… _

 

He was careful to downplay the danger, the miserable conditions, making the whole expedition sound like a jolly adventure. He was also careful not to refer to Mr Morgan by name - or linger on his existence at all.

 

_ I must say that the wolves got a bit too close for comfort, although you must not worry yourself, because a passing gentleman scared the pack off before I could be hurt... _

 

~*~*~

 

“They creep up on you, y’know.”

 

Not for the first time, Albert found himself frightened out of his skin by Mr Morgan’s approach. He was dressed lighter for the heat of the swamp. No jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose the tan skin of his forearms, and a jaw as close to clean-shaven as Albert had seen on him. 

 

The conversation flowed easily as ever between them, but Mr Morgan seemed keen to get Albert off the bank and onto the river. “I'll protect you,” Mr Morgan insisted - again, the little spark lit in Albert's chest, much as he tried to extinguish it - and they both bundled onto the boat, Albert manning the camera, and Mr Morgan sat behind him, his strong arms rowing almost effortlessly, as though the swamp water was nothing but air. Albert wondered what would happen if he turned and kissed him right now. Probably get shot straight through the head, or at the very least thrown into the swamp for the alligators. He sighed and focused on the camera. It was difficult to hold it steady on the boat.

 

Still, he got his photographs.

 

“I hope you got something worth printing,” Mr Morgan said.

  
“Oh, assuredly,” he replied, too excited to remember to be self-deprecating. “The nation will see these beautiful beasts for what they truly are.”

 

“Killing machines?”

 

“Ha! No. Well, yes.” Albert wondered if they were still talking about the crocodiles. He kept his tone deliberately light. He was well aware that he should be more bothered by Mr Morgan. Morally outraged. Afraid. Frightened for his life, in fact. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing. This is America, after all. We hold a love for killers that borders on macabre. Loving killers is part of our makeup.”

 

Mr Morgan just shrugged. “Maybe, maybe. But usually we wait until after they’re dead.”

 

“Well. I hope we’ve changed.”

 

~*~*~

 

There were certain codes you could use, back in the city. They had to change fairly regularly - after all, you didn’t want anyone else to catch on - but particular colours or species of flower on the lapel, a reference to a specific shared acquaintance, even the pattern in which you laced your shoes; all of these could be little hints, little signs to test out if a fellow who caught your interest may return it.

 

Albert had been out of the loop for too long, of course. He didn’t know what men of his inclination were doing nowadays. And even if he did - it wasn’t as though Mr Morgan would know the right codes either.

 

(The idea of Mr Morgan in a city - in that cowboy hat of his, his big leather boots and his slow southern voice - was dissonant enough to be amusing.)

 

~*~*~

 

It was easy to let silence settle between them, as they rowed back to the shore - but Albert could also feel a tension, almost as present in the air as the suffocating humidity, and he watched Mr Morgan’s arms as he rowed, the steady shifting of muscle.

 

“These pictures you’re taking,” Mr Morgan said, “they gonna be any good?”

 

From anyone else that might have come across as condescending, but by now Albert could recognise it as a legitimate question. “I certainly hope so,” he said, as honestly as possible. Mr Morgan was leant forward in the boat, his gaze was intense, and before Albert could second-guess himself any further he took the plunge and offered: “I could show you, if you’re that interested. I’m staying just across from here in Lagras.”

 

The silence stretched for just a second too long.

 

“Of course,” Albert tried to rescue himself, “I expect you’re very busy, Mr Morgan, far too much on your plate to waste time looking at my talentless -”

 

“Gimme a moment to answer,” Mr Morgan huffed. He spoke lightly, but the tension was still there - palpable between them, in the way he looked Albert up and down, without quite meeting his eyes. Then he looked out over the swamps. “Hell, why not. Not like I got anything better to be doin’.”

 

Albert’s stomach felt as though it was full of something fizzy.

 

~*~*~

 

Lagras was a God-forsaken village, and the place Albert was renting was nothing more than a garden shed with a bed in the corner, but his standards had been lowered since he left the city; he was just grateful to have somewhere sturdier than a tent. (He still had not recovered from the time, early in his journey, that he had awoken to find his camp flooded by the morning rain and all his negatives from the day before ruined). Still, he felt a bit self-conscious as he lead Mr Morgan into the cramped room. The ceiling was barely high enough for a grown man to fit beneath.

 

His heart was thudding with what must have been audible force. All his limbs felt too hot, and it wasn’t just the heat of the swamp. He tried to breathe steadily because really, he wasn’t a teenager, he should be more sensible than this.

 

Mr Morgan was watching him from beneath his dusky blond eyelashes. They seemed to be standing far too close. Albert stared back without even trying to hide it. Were they going to humour the conceit of this visit - look through his photographs, Albert accepting the inevitable, stilted praise? The tension he’d been feeling all day was as taut as a bowstring. He felt as though he could snap at any second. No - what he felt was the second before he took a photograph, that specific heightened moment that was  _ right _ , that made every fibre in him thrum  _ yes, now _ .

 

“You know,” Mr Morgan’s voice seemed obscenely loud, cutting abrupt through the silence, and so close to Albert that he could almost feel the heat of his breath “I don’t…”

 

Whatever he was trying to say faded into nothing.

 

Whenever Albert had imagined this - more times than he’d like to admit - he’d assumed that Mr Morgan would take the lead. Instead he found himself reaching forward. As gently as possible, he cupped his jawline, drawing their faces dangerously close together.

 

There was still a lingering claw of anxiety (what if he’d somehow misjudged everything, what if Mr Morgan was about to rear back in disgust or fear or anger) until the very moment that Mr Morgan tilted his head and pressed their lips together, softly at first, but then his hands bracketed Albert’s hips and drew them flush against each other even as Albert’s own hands were wondering around to tangle in the soft length of his hair…

 

They fit together perfectly. Too perfect. Albert never wanted to break away.

 

“Y'know, Mr Mason, I ain't done this before,” Mr Morgan whispered into the breathless silence that hung between them once they finally parted. 

 

“I think you can call me Albert.”

 

“I'll be Arthur to you, then. And I'm serious. I haven't.”

 

“You mean you've never been with a man?”

 

Mr Morgan - or rather, Arthur - ground his words out, refusing to make eye contact and instead starting at the wall behind Albert's head, although the flush of his skin was still noticeable. “Nah. I ain't never done this before. With nobody. Well, there’s been one or two ladies, but I… It was a long time ago, you understand?”

 

Before, he'd considered two possibilities: Arthur was a normal sort of chap, and popular with the ladies; or else Arthur was like him, and popular with the gentlemen. The thought that someone like Arthur - someone so  _ perfect _ \- 

 

“That's fine,” he said before his thoughts could run off with him, “we’ve no need to rush.”

 

~*~*~

 

Afterwards, there was something wonderfully in-character about Arthur taking long drags of his cigarette, his shirt still open and hanging around his shoulders; something that made Albert itch to grab his camera, even though he thought that instinct had long since been muted when it came to his bed partners. Arthur Morgan must bring out the young man in him, he mused.

 

“You don’t smoke?” Arthur asked, and Albert shook his head.

 

“Not usually. It doesn’t agree with my lungs. Makes me cough.”

 

Arthur seemed to find that very amusing, but he didn’t comment, just made a slight effort to blow his smoke in the other direction. It still permeated the whole room.

 

“You know,” Albert said, “I’m heading to Saint Denis now. A bit of civilisation will do me good. I can update my affairs, sleep on a nice hotel bed. And the local fauna are far less likely to fancy me for dinner, I reckon.”

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And that’s your polite way ‘a telling me what, exactly?”

 

“That if you wished to find me again, for whatever reason…” Albert spread his hands. “You would know where.”

 

Arthur seemed to consider this, taking an exaggeratedly long drag which did not quite hide the shy smile on his lips, but he did not reply out loud, and a few hours later Albert was tossing and turning as he tried to fall asleep alone, the lingering smell of smoke still ingrained into his pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is [xenixat](http://www.xenixat.tumblr.com)


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